


Emphasis on Hopeless

by livtontea



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: (kind of), Baz is Disturbed, Blood and Violence, Canon Compliant, Death, Dreams vs. Reality, Fantasizing, Graphic, Kissing, M/M, Watford Fifth Year, but it's a fantasy nobody actually dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:33:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23254012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livtontea/pseuds/livtontea
Summary: "Those were my fifth-year fantasies: kisses and blood and Snow ridding the world of me."
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 11
Kudos: 72





	Emphasis on Hopeless

**Author's Note:**

> My first actually serious Carry On fic! This was betaed by my friend [@thefaesayfuckyou](https://thefaesayfuckyou.tumblr.com/), big thanks to him!
> 
> As the tags and summary suggest, this is about Baz's fantasies in fifth-year. Naturally, that entails a death and gore warning. Enjoy!

In my dreams—in my fantasies—I always end up dying.

I've decided on that part. If I have to die so Simon Snow can live, can have his happily ever after with his girlfriend and whatnot—so be it. I've kind of come to terms with it.

It's not like I want to die. I don't have a death wish. (Sometimes, now more than ever, I wish I did.) But… better me than him. In the end, I always die, and Simon Snow is always the one to kill me. That's how it's going to end.

We're two supernovas—we're bound to explode. And one of us is going to turn into a black hole and kill the other.

It was always going to be that way. Maybe, if I try hard enough, I can be the black hole. I can consume Snow, I can take everything he has and then grind the ashes under my heel. But I won't.

Simon Snow is a fucking supernova, and I'm hopelessly in love with him.

(Sometimes when I lay awake at night listening to his breathing, I wish I'd never figured it out. It would have made everything so much easier.)

Simon from my fantasies is always drenched in blood. My blood. Each time I think in passing, _I didn't know a vampire could bleed this much._

I don't know how much I can bleed. I don't think there's enough blood in me for me to bleed out—but that doesn't stop me from thinking about it. Thinking about Snow's sword slipping into my chest like a knife into an overripe peach, gutting me in more ways than one.

A lot of the time they start in the middle of a battle. Carnage all around us. But it never bothers me—I only have eyes for him. He's looking at me, just me, and his eyes are filled with rage and hatred combined. He's growling, sometimes. Like a dog with matted bronze fur—ready to jump me and rip out my throat.

He never rips out my throat. I never think of him coming anywhere close to my mouth. I worry that—maybe even when I'm imagining it, maybe I'll think of myself biting him. And then I won't be able to stop, and I'll think of how his blood would taste—I'll imagine myself pressing my face into his neck and drenching the front of my shirt in pomegranate-crimson. And then I'll pull myself out, out back into the real world, and I'll feel disgusting.

Vile. Fucking—fucking monstrous. A bloody abomination. Drinking is disgusting already—it's a painfully permanent reminder of how I am not like the others, of how instead of being human I'm a freak, a monstrosity that shouldn't even exist. Drinking from a person….

I would never touch a person. Never. I'd sooner die than let myself drink from a human.

And I do. Every time. Die, that is.

Simon looks at me with his wild-dog stare. His lips are curled back in a sneer. He's holding his fucking sword, blade looking golden-red in the light. Sometimes, it's smeared with blood, like he's already been fighting. Sometimes it's clean, like he got it out just for me—like he summoned it with one purpose in mind.

Ridding the world of me.

(It's almost a good feeling, how he does something just for me, like this. It's the best I'll ever hope to get from him. His sword drawn, ready to end me.)

I smirk, but it doesn't reach my eyes. I feel hot all over, like I'm about to burst into flames. Like a matchstick. Just…a little explosion of fire. One that isn't magic—one that I don't control.

He lunges at me. I don't fight back. I don't even try. He takes me down with him to the ground, like two ragdolls being thrown to the floor.

Snow sneers at me. "You deserve this," he says. I smile up at him. (He's pinned me to the ground now, sat atop me with the sword poised above my chest.) (Above my heart.)

"I know," I say. And then I reach up, and I kiss him.

I feel the sword stab straight into my heart, and he pushes me away—face flooded with disgust—and then I die.

Sometimes I let it go differently. We're not on a battlefield—we're in the catacombs. I have a dead rat in my hand, and my face is smeared with blood. He's at the entrance to the chamber, wand held in front of him emanating a glow that's bathing his face in flickering light, sword at his side. I've just finished feeding—he's just caught me in the act.

"You're a vampire," he says, almost whispering. And then he regains his bearings and spits, "I _knew_ it."

"Sure you did, Snow," I say. I toss aside the rodent and give him my full attention. His grip on the hilt of his sword tightens.

"Monster," he hisses. His magic is thrumming under his skin—not like he's going to go off, but like he's absolutely furious; he wants to kill me. It feels exhilarating. Knowing that one thing I'll always be good for is being there for Simon to destroy.

I can still taste blood. "I know."

His eyes flash blue in the near darkness, and I stride toward him, taking his face in my hands and pressing my mouth to his. It's warm. He's always ran hot.

Snow gasps, and—because I'm pathetic—kisses me back. His mouth is hot, and I'm messily smearing blood on his face. His hand limps and the light from the wand dulls as it falls to his side.

His sword pierces my flesh, going clean through my stomach and emerging on the other side. It's hilt-deep inside me. I sink to the floor and he sinks with me, and I'm still kissing him.

I cough blood onto his face. It's probably a mix of rat's blood and mine. (What counts as my blood.) I kiss him, and I'm dying—he's killing me.

I tear away. Snow's face is painted red. I look into his plain blue eyes, filled with disgust and hate and anger.

"I'm in love with you," I slur, and then I slump forward and die in his arms.

Because I am. I'm in love with Simon Snow. Simon who is the Mage's Heir. Who's the Greatest Mage. Who's the Chosen One.

Simon who is going to try to kill me—and I'll let him. I'll always let him. He can take whatever he wants from me, and I'll let him. Offer it to him, even.

He's always gotten things on a silver platter. (That's not true.) What difference does my life make? I can give it to him. Let him kill me, and put me on the other side of the Veil where I belong.

This is the most I'll ever get. Watching him sleep—thinking of how it would be to lay beside him, to feel his chest rising and falling—and fantasizing. Dreaming. (Not for something I can't have—I want it, but I don't dream about it; when it comes to Snow, I only dream about what's realistic.) (I only dream about him killing me, and maybe, if I'm lucky, me sneaking in a kiss before I die.)

In the daylight, I watch him and Wellbelove. They hold hands, and he laughs at things she says. (This is when he's not stalking me, of course. Arse.)

He's like the sun. She's the moon. They fit together, and I hate it—I hate every moment of it.

I'll never be his moon. Simon Snow will never look at me the way he looks at Agatha Wellbelove. I'm just another star on the other side of the galaxy, sneaking glances from the corner of my eye. And I'll be there, I'll be looking when he goes supernova. When he compresses so tight he can't hold all of himself in anymore, and explodes in my direction.

("I fucking hate you." Blood on my lips, blood on his blade. Crimson on my chest, scarlet on his hands.

I don't reach to kiss him. "I know.")

He takes Wellbelove's hand. Pale porcelain in his welded copper. My spoon snaps between my fingers.

("Mate, you good?" Niall asks. Dev raises his eyebrows and follows my gaze.

"Oh, don't tell me. You like her, don't you."

I don't say anything. Snow is still holding Wellbelove's hand.)

Flirting with her and feeling his infuriated stare on me feels both elating and soul-crushing (do I have a soul?) at the same time.

Sometimes I look at Snow and for a moment, it looks like his skin is leaking blood. Like it's just been brought to the surface. His face is shadowed red. (“Why don’t you go back to the Mage’s heel where you belong,” I taunt, and lose my breath when he slits my throat.) And then I blink, and he's back to normal.

Bronze hair. Blue eyes. Nothing sanguineous about him.

I want him to stay alive. Alive, alive, alive. Alive like he is now—so fucking alive. Simon Snow is so alive, and I'm hopelessly in love with him. All our love will ever be is hateful glares and bloody bodies and stab wounds in the shirts I wear.

(Emphasis on hopelessly.)

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked this! As always a comment would be greatly appreciated, I'd love to know your thoughts on this!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [@bahumdrum](https://bahumdrum.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading<3


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